


It's Simple Stoichiometry

by calrissian18



Series: Actual Watch-Wolf Derek Hale [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pining Derek, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek’s eyes stray around Stiles’ room.  His wall calendar is on April.  Of last year.  He might not have a great grip on what day it is.  Or what year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Simple Stoichiometry

**Author's Note:**

> This series can be read as stand-alones or as related fics based around the prompts given at fullmoon_ficlet @ lj. This week's was 'Valentine's Day.' Hope all you folks out there are having good ones!
> 
>  
> 
> Almost late and totally half-assed... huzzah?

This is quite possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever done.  And Derek Hale is impressively familiar with stupid so raising the bar deserves more than just modest attention.  He squares his jaw, trying to fight back the tense of his shoulders.  Which makes that uncomfortable tightness search out a new location and his fist clenches around the stem.

Again.

It’s bent and hanging awkwardly over the edge of his palm like it’s trying to plummet to its death but Derek won’t do the decent thing and just let it go already.

It’s pathetic.  Worse than.  The petals are already starting to wilt.  And Derek thinks about leaving.  No one knows he’s here and there’s nothing that says he has to give it away.

But.  But it’s been something like two weeks – okay, it’s been sixteen days because of  _course_  Derek knows  _exactly_  how long it’s been.  And Stiles might be caught in a web of research and video games and, really, it’s only right that someone should check on him and make sure his diet consists of more than Dr. Pepper and Funyuns.

If Derek waited to do it until the second month of the year and the fourteenth day of said month, well, no one could prove that had been premeditated.  He frowns down at the flower, bringing up his free hand so it hangs an inch or so away from the door, poised to knock.

He hopes Stiles will  _get it_.  It had been months ago now, last  _year_  technically.  Stiles had gotten startled by a garden snake, tripped over a rock, and fallen ass first into the creek behind Derek’s old house.  He’d scowled, scrambling to his feet, and his hands had dug into the small, muddy bank, pulling up weeds and grass and catching the stem of an orange-purple flower between two fingers before he managed to stand.

The same orange-purple flower Derek’s now holding.

He’d thrust it out to Derek without hesitating and said, ‘So much nicer than you deserve, you assmunch.  I’m, like, seventy-three percent certain you and your wolfy superpowers could have prevented that.’

Derek had neither confirmed nor denied and he made a show of tossing the flower over the shoulder.

He didn’t keep it.  He  _didn’t_.

He might have found it again and set it out on the railing on the back porch but that didn’t count as keeping it.  Even if he did sometimes sit on the steps and read while casting surreptitious glances in the direction of the flower like he was trying to attach some deeper meaning to it.

He wasn’t, of course.  Because it was a plant.  A kind of pretty plant that Stiles wasn’t making any sort of  _declaration_  with.  Derek knew that.

His frown deepened.  Derek’s own plant looked like it was on its way from half-dead to full-dead.  A pathetic flower for a hopelessly pathetic and emotionally-imbecilic train wreck.  Who wouldn’t want all of that?

Derek scowls at himself and knocks.  He manages to take a deep breath in but not release it before Stiles is yelling down the stairs, “C _o_ ming!”  He draws out the ‘O’ obnoxiously long.  Derek feels his stomach do an uncomfortable wriggling thing – which he’d confused for disgust for far too long – and his palm starts to sweat profusely.

The flower is really trying to make its death plunge now, slippery from his own perspiration and already tilted that way.  Derek fumbles with it.  Should he have it ready?  Or hide it behind his back to present it?  He frowns harder.  That kind of implies his plant is at all presentable.  It is not.  He should hardly be amping  _up_ the suspense factor here.

He’ll just hold it at his side, not drop it or let it slip out of his grip, and then hand it to Stiles without making  _A Thing_  out of it.  Because it isn’t.  A Thing.  Well, it  _is_  a thing – technically – you know, a noun, but it’s not A Thing and, fuck, Derek needs to derail this train of thought because he can hear Stiles pounding down the stairs and it’s time to act like a functional person now.

The door swings open.

Stiles’ cheeks are puffed out and his eyes widen.  He pulls back his lips and catches something between his teeth – it kind of looks like a mini-calzone – to keep it off his tongue.  He sucks in cool air around the clench of them.  He points at it and gets out a garbled and intense, “ _Hot_  like fire,” before dropping it into his waiting palm.

He smiles for a half-second, undoubtedly planning to spew something sarcastic and just a tad mean about not knowing Derek was even aware of what doors  _were_  when he catches sight of the flower and his entire expression falls.  “Dude, you have  _got_  to be kidding me.”

Derek clenches his teeth.  He’d told himself this would happen – in the worst-case scenario he’d forced himself to imagine.  That Stiles wouldn’t even let Derek hand it to him, and then there would be an awkward and devastating let down from a sixteen-year-old.  Fuck.  How was this his life?  Derek squares his shoulders, waiting for it.

“No, no,” Stiles makes a cross with his fingers like he’s warding off a vampire – poorly, “I am  _not_  researching tonight.”

Derek blinks but Stiles isn’t done.

“I have this thing, it’s called high school and it’s a large institution that teaches outmoded information you’ll never use again and corrals teenagers during the day until they’re ready to be released into the world.  Today’s lesson is stoichiometry and, yes, it is exactly as ridiculous as it sounds and while Mrs. Martin does not seem to want to  _actively_  make my life miserable – like Harris did – it’s happening  _like_  she was planning for it.  Instead, this is just a happy accident.”  He points down at the flower with a shaking finger.  “So  _that_  is just going to have to fucking wait.” 

“It can’t,” Derek says, the words jumping out of his mouth without consulting his brain. 

Stiles makes his groan into a serious production, pops the, now, cool enough calzone-thing into his mouth and snatches the flower out of Derek’s hand, turning on his heel.

It’s literally the worst possible way Derek could have imagined giving it to him.  He stands on the porch for a half-second, flexes stiff, damp fingers and follows Stiles inside.

He’s already hunched over, staring vacuously at his computer screen and lost in back channels of the internet that he shouldn’t even know exist.  He glances up when Derek reaches the door of his room.  “So, where’d we find this, big guy, and what was it being used for?  Some sort of magic malarkey, found near a strange scent, what are we talking about here?  Also, you wouldn’t happen to know what it  _is_ , right?  A name, Latin classification, genus, any of that would help, like, immensely.”  Stiles stares at the flower.  There’s not a hint of recognition in his eyes and this was the worst plan Derek’s ever come up with.

And that wasn’t something he thought lightly either because he was kind of expert at terrible plans, too. 

“I don’t know,” he growls.  Stiles’ notebook, chemistry book and pens are spread out over the bed.  Derek sits on the edge, trying to disrupt as little of it as possible.  It’s not to leave his scent there.  Stiles only has the one chair and he’s made it very clear that he thinks of Derek as a complete nonentity so trying to rub his scent into Stiles’ sheets would just be extra pathetic. 

He shuffles around a little, trying to find a comfortable position,  _not_  because of the scent thing.  Because of the previously stated patheticness and him knowing better and all.

Stiles is just staring at him.  “That was negative help, help to the negative power, just so you know.”  He turns back around with a strident, annoyed sound and starts clicking madly.

Derek’s eyes stray around Stiles’ room.  His wall calendar is on April.  Of last year.  He  _might_  not have a great grip on what day it is.  Or what year.  Derek thinks about turning it back to February.

He doesn’t.

Instead he flounders around for something to do, some conversation to make while Stiles researches something that doesn’t need researched.  He picks at a thread on his jeans, glances down at Stiles’ notebook.  Derek remembers stoichiometry.  He remembers it being easy, too.

It’s right there in Stiles’ notes, how he’s making everything a thousand times more complicated than it needs to be, like stoichiometry is a conspiracy theory involving two shooters and a missing Maltese falcon.  Derek crosses a few things out and writes his own notes in the margin.

He flips Stiles’ homework over and does an example problem step by step and in simple format to show how easy it really is.  He does three of them before he realizes he’s sitting in companionable silence with Stiles, both working quietly but for Stiles’ humming of  _Flesh and Bone_  under his breath.

Derek only knows it because the CD has taken up permanent residence in Stiles’ changer in the Jeep.  It’s kind of Stiles’ anthem, his soundtrack everywhere he goes.  So of course Derek would know it because he’s just that hopeless.

He sets Stiles’ homework aside and watches him crick his neck and pinch his lower lip between his fingers before sucking it into his mouth.  Stiles is a kind of endless entertainment, unable to sit still and always fascinating.  Derek doesn’t know how long he’s been staring when Stiles huffs out a breath through his nose and says, “Fuck it.”

Derek makes a low, questioning sound.

Stiles turns around and throws up his hands, everything he does involving his full body.  Derek tries not to think about that most days.  “I can’t find anything about this idiot flower being used in  _any_  kind of supernatural  _anything_.  It’s an iris, by the way.  And it’s totally useless.  Its only skill is looking pretty and this one is super bad at even that.”

Derek winces.

Stiles claps his hands together.  “So,” he grinned, “I’m thinking we should go back to where you found it and check out the scene of the… whatever it was that got you to, er, get  _me_  on flower research.”

Derek means to say, ‘forget it,’ and leave and never think or speak of this again.  Because, holy fuck, talk about  _epic_  failure.  What he does say is: “Fine.”  Because it means he gets more time with Stiles.  And, as it turns out, there’s very little he won’t do for that.

Stiles pops up.  “Awesome.”  He rummages in his closet for his jacket and Derek stands at the door and watches him do it.  Stiles stops and stares down at the back page of his homework Derek has written all over as he pulls it on.  A little crease appears between his eyebrows and Derek feels a shiver snake up his spine.  It makes Stiles look older, more intense.  He shifts the pages closer with the tips of his fingers.

That also makes Derek’s body chemistry do weird stuff.

He frowns thoughtfully and, when he looks up at Derek, his expression clears.  His mouth gapes a little and he’s gazing at Derek with something uncomfortably close to awe.  “Dude,” he breathes, “this makes  _so much_  sense.  Like, the sense-making it is doing right now is insane.  We just went from zero to, like, six thousand because, yeah, whoa—I get this, you know?”

Derek shoves down the preening smile and shrugs, like it’s no big deal.  Like it doesn’t matter that maybe he’s  _finally_  convinced Stiles that he’s not an idiot, despite all evidence to the contrary.  Like he didn’t just  _finally_  help and repay one of the thousand favors he owes.  Like Stiles isn’t  _finally_  actually looking at  _him_.  He clears his throat and Stiles starts a little and zips up his jacket.

“Should I grab my keys?” he asks as he passes Derek, snatching up the flower from his desk.

And Derek has the brilliant thought – really, he could kiss his brain.  “It’s not far, we can walk.”  The night may not be going exactly to plan but he’s given Stiles the flower – sort of, spent time with him and shared a companionable moment up in his bedroom, and now they’re going for a walk together under the stars.  It’s the first date Derek’s never been on.

Except it’s not actually a date because Stiles has no idea he’s on one.

It’s cool out, but not cold, and the stars are visible out to the west and it’s dark, but not so much so that they need any more than the moon’s light to guide them.  “This is nice,” Stiles says when they’ve stepped into the Preserve, and he’s staring up at the broken canopy of bare branches and the few clinging leaves.

 _Yeah, it is_ , Derek thinks.  What he says is: “I think it was around here.”  It wasn’t.  Because he knows exactly where this flower came from and that’s more than a mile away from this spot.

Stiles drops his chin, redirects his gaze to the forest floor rather than up at the needle pricks of stars in the sky.  It doesn’t take him long to trip over a root.

Derek catches him by the collar of his shirt with a scowl and sets him back on his feet.

Stiles wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans and shoots Derek a semi-embarrassed, semi-pleased grin.  “Thanks,” he says.

Derek grunts.

He misses the way Stiles’ eyes widen, misses the way they shoot to the flower in his hand and then to Derek’s back, misses the way his palm opens and he just stares at the petals he’d had crushed in it.  He only sees the result of that sudden comprehension: Stiles’ hand closing on his shoulder and hauling him around.

He shakes the flower at Derek.  “You were  _giving_  this to me,” he accuses.

Derek’s eyes go wide.  “I wasn’t,” he says gruffly.

Stiles just glares at him.  “ _Why_  were you  _giving_  this to me?”

Derek shrugs, since there’s clearly no use in denying it again as Stiles will likely just continue to regard it for the lie it is.

“ _Derek._ ”  His gaze goes sharper.  “Is this another one of your weird protection schemes?  Like the iris wards off chupacabras or something?”

Derek shakes his head.  “Because.”  He scowls.  “Because it’s February.”  It’s the best he can do.   _Really_.

Not even a trace of understanding comes into Stiles’ features.  “Dude,” he squints, “irises and chupacabras and February are connected?”

“It’s the  _fourteenth_  of  _February_ ,” Derek grinds out.

And Stiles.  Still.  Doesn’t.  Get.  It.  He looks slightly uncomfortable, like the date might be an anniversary of someone’s death or something.  “And that’s significant for you somehow?” he says carefully, softly. 

“Stiles,” Derek bursts out, “it’s  _Valentine’s Day_.”

It clearly takes another second for the penny to drop.  ‘Okay, so, it’s Valentine’s Day.  What were they talking about?  Why Derek gave him a flower.  Derek answered that it was Valentine’s Day.’  Derek sees that whole process take place and then Stiles’ jaw drops.  “Oh!  Oh, so you were—this was.”  He cuts himself off.  Blinks.  Stares down at the flower.  “You gave me a flower.”

Derek grunts an affirmative.

That crease appears between Stiles’ brows again before his face breaks out into a small, restrained smile, which is so unlike him, to be so reserved.  It’s how Derek knows it’s new, how he knows it’s just for him.  “I can handle a flower,” he decides.  “If you can handle me kind of, sort of kissing you on the cheek, I can definitely handle a flower.”

Derek swallows, thinks about not saying it, thinks about how much better things have gone now that he  _has_  said  _things_ , and says, “I could handle more than that.”

**Author's Note:**

> I told you I would get this up day of, [my Hale-raisers](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/)! I could feel your totally unjustified doubtfulness!


End file.
